


better angels

by cheeryrepublicsunshine



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Tevinter Imperium, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Pining, Sibling Incest, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-09-24 17:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20362390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheeryrepublicsunshine/pseuds/cheeryrepublicsunshine
Summary: (He only called Hawke Garrett when he was angry, which was admittedly a lot of the time. Hawke wasn’t quite sad enough to admit that he liked the sound of those two syllables when they found themselves pressed between Carver’s need to be sanctimonious and his need to be righteously indignant, but he was ever so grateful that Carver indulged him often enough already. It would have been really pathetic if he infuriated Carver on purpose just to hear his own name come out of Carver’s mouth.)





	better angels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Artemis1000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/gifts).

It was only a silencing spell on the door that saved everyone in the halls outside from hearing Carver’s armor clatter to the floor as he removed it viciously from his body, his leathers and gloves following quickly with a disdainful thwack as they hit the wall and then fell, also, to the floor. This wasn’t unusual exactly—Hawke was familiar enough with this behavior to know a silencing spell _was_ necessary after all—but it wasn’t common either.

“You really ought to take better care of your—”

“You’ll take care of it,” Carver snapped, cutting him off with a snarl, and that was true enough. Hawke was perfectly happy to magic away the dents and dings that cluttered up Carver’s armor after a fight or a fit of pique. There wasn’t a Templar who abused it as thoroughly as he did. Other Templars’ armor looked pristine for years on end, never seeing combat. Carver, always training, always moving, always tossing his shit around in Hawke’s various rooms? Carver managed to damage his more often than anyone Hawke had ever met.

If Hawke sometimes wove protective spells into each piece, that was his business and his business alone. Carver either didn’t notice or care and so had never yelled at him about it, explaining in exquisitely painful detail that he wasn’t a child and could protect himself, thank you very fucking much, Garrett. (He only called Hawke Garrett when he was angry, which was admittedly a lot of the time. Hawke wasn’t quite sad enough to admit that he liked the sound of those two syllables when they found themselves pressed between Carver’s need to be sanctimonious and his need to be righteously indignant, but he was ever so grateful that Carver indulged him often enough already. It would have been really pathetic if he infuriated Carver on purpose just to hear his own name come out of Carver’s mouth.)

“—armor,” Hawke finished, cheerfully determined, not at all unaware of the source of Carver’s current mood. For anyone else, Hawke might have offered an assurance or two—he was an asshole, but not that much of one—but Carver never appreciated a soft word when a scathing one of his own would do just as well. So Hawke merely stood in the center of this new, unfamiliar room and waited for whatever it was Carver needed from him to work through his frustrations. In the meantime, he admired the flex of Carver’s muscles, because he was only human and a particularly devious one at that and Carver’s muscles were truly a sight to behold.

Hawke’s father would be livid, if he was still alive, and their mother would never find out if Hawke had his way, but within the privacy of these rooms—wherever those rooms happened to be, as long as there were four walls and a door at the very least, what they did was their business. It wasn’t like half of Tevinter wasn’t out there salivating over their own bloodlines either, they just pretended they were scandalized about the possibility of anyone actually following through. Hypocrisy at its finest.

The more damning aspect would have been the fact that their unions would always and forever prove utterly and undeniably fruitless. Hawke found he cared less and less as time wore on, no matter how often he was criticized for not finally procuring himself a wife and a line of succession worthy of his family’s name. Leave that to Bethany if she so desired. Her powers were even greater than his, though her interests were far less immediately useful to the Imperium. Nobody believed him when he said as much, but maybe one day, she’d get tired of playing meek in a forgotten corner of Ferelden and allow herself to stretch her wings a bit. Necromancy might suit her if she gave it a shot.

Hawke certainly hoped she would. It would ease their mother’s worries some if she made herself important, too, and it would be one more way Carver could remain insulated against the worst of what Tevinter gave to all non-magical citizens lucky enough to be born into particularly blessed families: scorn and pity, the two things Carver hated most in the world. With enough mages in their line, they’d stop paying attention to Carver entirely.

Carver removed his vambrace and, pointedly staring at Hawke as he lifted his arm, dropped it to the floor where it clattered and spun a couple of meters, kicked out of the way by Carver’s boot. “You were saying?”

Hawke couldn’t hide the smile that formed on his mouth, wouldn’t have wanted to even if it was possible. Maker forgive him, but sometimes he really did love his brother even whilst he wanted to strangle the gods-given life out of him for it. Crossing his arms, he waited for Carver to continue. There wasn’t anything Hawke could say to make this better, not until he knew the nature of Carver’s complaint.

“I hate Emerius,” Carver said, sounding so small as to be pained. It wasn’t his usual whining motivating these words. “It feels… off.”

Carver wasn’t magical, but his intuition wasn’t terrible either. Hawke could do worse than heed his warning, vague though it was. He didn’t remind Carver that Carver was the one who demanded to come. He also wasn’t stupid enough to tell Carver he’d happily pay for passage back to Ferelden if Carver wished it. In truth, since that Carver was here with him anyway, he found he didn’t want to let him go. “I’m not impressed so far either. We’ll be careful while we’re here. Hopefully it won’t take too long to get the Circle whipped into shape and then we can go home.”

Whipped. Not the worst way of thinking about it given the oh, so charming art that had greeted them upon their arrival. This place had been shit even before Tevinter got hold of it again—only about the thousandth time in as many years, it seemed—and by all accounts it remained so no matter how much attention Tevinter devoted to it while they tried to ‘clean it up.’ Whatever that meant. Not much from the look of it. Part of Hawke wanted to write the entire place off, send the mages here to other, better Circles, redistribute the Templars as well, but he knew that was impossible, couldn’t be sustained. Nobody had the time or inclination and more mages would be born here and they wouldn’t have the same accesses as elsewhere and it would be a pain in the ass at that point, too, families clamoring for the Circle back, blah blah blah, until the end of time.

Maker, what a depressing thought, and exactly the reason why Hawke was here rather than back home where he belonged. Someone had to bridge the cultural divides between the southern mages and their established northern counterparts. Somehow that job fell to Hawke, possibly because he felt like he only southern mage who wasn’t secretly pining for a bygone age that wasn’t any better for mages than this one.

It wasn’t that he wanted mages to have all the power; he just realized futility when he saw it. Better to enact change from the inside and all that. Somehow, so far, it had worked.

But that was a thought for the Hawke who woke up tomorrow morning and would be expected to turn this Circle into one that Tevinter could be proud of, but wouldn’t destroy Hawke’s soul in the process either.

Better to think nicer thoughts right now. Like how he was going to pester Carver into bed. Let him brood from there if he was so determined to do so. He was an ever-talented multitasker in that respect. No one else in Thedas could give a better disgruntled blowjob than Carver or funnel his frustrations more thoroughly into a good fucking. It would be his claim to fame if Hawke was willing to let Carver out of his sight with another person, which he wasn’t. If Carver was constantly jealous in the abstract, Hawke was possessive about Carver in particular. He could set it aside for the greater good when he had to, but when he didn’t…

Well, Carver wasn’t going to The Blooming Rose alone any time soon, that was for certain.

Hawke sat on the edge of his bed, uncertain yet whether it would be more or less uncomfortable than his lodgings back home. Time would tell, he supposed. Bending forward, he studiously ignored Carver as he pulled his boots from his feet and tossed them with slightly less abandon next to the bedside table. He looked toward Carver out of the corner of his eye and began tugging at the laces of his robes, wishing feathers were less in style. Not only did he feel like a stupid bird when he pulled off the pauldrons, they managed to get everywhere whether he wanted them there or not.

Carver’s attention weighed on him, welcome for all that Hawke could sense his anger, too. A flush worked its way up his neck as he pulled at his collar and he finally turned toward Carver, favoring him with a smile. Carver was never happy with these assignations, not until he was halfway through them and feeling something other than anger.

Hawke never initiated, though by this point he was always desperate for Carver to make the call.

Hawke wasn’t above, sometimes, admitting to himself that he might be pathetic, that he could do more than take whatever scraps Carver decided to throw his way. Because if it was rebellion to Carver, it was necessity to Hawke.

“I fucking hate this place,” Carver said again, enough weight behind it that Hawke could hear what he didn’t say. _I hate you for bringing yourself here, too._ If not for Hawke, none of this would have happened. But he stomped toward Hawke anyway, like the fact that Carver helped do this to himself didn’t matter. Like ultimately, it didn’t matter that he hated this place and hated Hawke by proxy. Begrudging, he began disrobing Hawke for him, a nice touch all things considered, his hands less impatient than Hawke would have expected. It was almost nice, the way they skimmed over his chest and shoulders. Each brush of his fingertips sent an accompanying throb through Hawke’s body, as though Carver was gifted with one form of magic only and it was playing Hawke’s body for a song. “Well, stand up then.”

Hawke bit back a smile and did as asked, allowing Carver to pull his robes and the accompanying shift from his body. The thin linen remained within the thicker wools and leathers of his robes, the pair tossed to the floor. It would be difficult to retrieve the shift later, but that was a problem for the Hawke who scrambled to retrieve them ten, fifteen minutes from now if he was unlucky or the Hawke who’d wake in the night, cold and shivering, Carver’s side of the bed—and he always had a side, even if he didn’t or couldn’t stick around to use it—only recently vacated, his shape still outlined in the padding, if he was rather more lucky than that.

Down to his shorts, he drew in a bracing breath and tugged at Carver’s belt in turn, ignoring the goose pimples forming in the chill of the room. He didn’t feel self-conscious exactly, his body lean and muscled and pleasing, but it might have been nice to feel appreciated, like this wasn’t all just a perfunctory activity meant to burn through a couple minutes of down time or punish Hawke specifically for all of his many and varied failings when it came to Carver.

If it were possible, he’d have given Carver everything he wanted: every bit of magical talent Hawke had, every bit of respect from Minrathous that he’d fought and killed and clawed for, the supposed love of their father before he found himself caught up in business he had no reason in which to partake and got himself killed for it. Other people’s stupid opinions didn’t trouble Hawke the way they troubled Carver. It wouldn’t have been a hardship for him to give up this measure of power if it meant Carver’s happiness and good will.

In short order, Carver’s clothing joined Hawke’s robes in a tangled puddle by the bed. Again, Hawke considered the possibility that they should be a bit less haphazard about such things, but the thought fled as soon as Carver grabbed him by the biceps and turned him back toward the bed, murmuring in rushed, harshly low tones that he wanted him face down.

Another lurching throb in his chest. His cock, hard and aching. He went loose and pliant as he arranged himself, pushing out of and kicking off his shorts, heard the rustling as Carver did the same with his own before straddling the back of Hawke’s thighs. He’d joked once, not in the least bit vulnerable, that Carver must not have wanted to look at his face when they did this, since he always preferred things this way. Hawke had half a mind to repeat the joke, since Carver’d told him to shut up, pulled him back around and fucked him hard and fast while he looked directly into Hawke’s eyes, a dare, a taunt, probably still the best railing he’d ever gotten, Carver pulling one leg up onto his shoulder while he held fast to the other, fingers digging bruises into the back of his knee.

Perhaps later, Hawke thought, as Carver’s hands stroked lightly down his spine and splayed across his lower back, pressing hard suddenly into the tense muscles there. His callouses formed a pleasing counterpoint to the otherwise smooth skin of his palms and fingers and Hawke arched back into the touch. This, whatever it was, was unexpected, new. Emerius had gotten under Carver’s skin in ways Hawke couldn’t have anticipated and now he was benefiting from it.

He ignored his own hardness, though he wanted desperately to grind down into the bed for relief. Carver could always do this to him, take him apart in new and surprising way, and Hawke would have loved every minute of it except that he wasn’t sure he was prepared for a kind touch from Carver, a soft one. It made Hawke feel like porcelain, like glass, not necessarily fragile on the face of it, but easy to shatter if mishandled. He couldn’t—didn’t want to—fall apart already, not when they’d only just arrived here and the job was too big to falter at.

How much worse will it get before they’ll be able to move on again if he was already doing this now? Whatever had gotten under his skin, Hawke couldn’t deal with it. Carver was massaging circles into his hips and kneading the aches from his arms because the way he wore his staff pulled at his shoulders in ways Hawke always complained about when they were alone.

Carver never did anything about it except call him an infant who needed to train more.

“Carver,” he said, insistent, but Carver shushed him and bent forward to suck a mark into the back of his neck. He, too, was hard at least, his cock pressed against Hawke’s ass, tantalizingly close to another part of Hawke’s anatomy that thoroughly enjoyed having Carver’s cock near to it. But he couldn’t even focus on that, not when Carver was pressing a constellation of kisses from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. Heat burned his face and his eyes prickled, his breath shuddering through him. “Carver.”

Hawke screwed his eyes shut and grabbed the pillow to keep from reaching for himself or for Carver. He bit his lip until he was sure he’d bleed for it, the pain sharp and grounding, a perfect counterpoint to the way Carver seemed to touch him everywhere all at once.

He retreated into sarcasm, for fear of begging Carver to never stop otherwise, and found himself free of whatever spell Carver couldn’t possibly be putting him under because he wasn’t a mage. Wriggling, he groaned, not letting himself feel guilty about the way his cock dragged across the scratchy blanket, so different from the cool trail of pre-come leaking across the swell of his buttock. “Have you considered getting on with this before we both die of old age?”

Carver’s hands wrapped around his hips, pulling him up onto his knees before he slapped Hawke’s flank, urging him to bring his legs together. “You’re such an asshole,” he said, and Hawke sighed in relief. This was familiar territory and the scrape of Carver’s nails across his skin, raising crisscrossing red marks wherever he decided to scratch, made it easier for him to let go and have this. It seemed he’d worked out of Carver’s system whatever had gotten into him. There was a note in Carver’s voice as he spoke that Hawke didn’t recognize, but he figured as long as Carver was calling him names, it couldn’t mean too much.

If Hawke was a smarter, more prepared man, he’d have ensured they had oil before letting this happen, but he wasn’t a smart man, and Carver made do perfectly well, pushing himself home between Hawke’s thighs without even a by-your-leave. His cock slipped easily enough between them, the drag of it drawing groans from him as his hips snapped in slow, inexorable jerks. Every once in a while, his cock brushed Hawke’s balls and that felt good enough that Hawke was already close to coming even without Carver touching him.

Hawke muffled his own moans as best he could for no other reason than because he knew Carver liked it when he got loud and he preferred making Carver work for it, the only bit of revenge he could get in these situations, Carver always, always getting the better of him.

Carver’s thrusts grew erratic and his breath came in great, panting gasps. Hawke himself felt like he might overheat, sweat breaking out across his body, and arms shaking as he held himself up. Carver hadn’t even touched him, not really, and already he was close enough that he might come at any moment, unbidden, orgasm ripped from him in a disarray.

Carver stilled, legs pressed tight against Hawke’s ass, and groaned low and tight, grappling for Hawke in a fumble as his palm traced its way toward Hawke’s length. Warmth pulsed across Hawke’s thighs and began cooling rapidly

Hawke lasted maybe five seconds longer, but they were the longest five seconds of his life and the least he could say was he’d outlasted Carver, a game only he knew they were playing. They were also his favorite five seconds, always, those few moments before he spilled across the bed or Carver’s palm or his own stomach, a few times even Carver’s stomach. He looked back on them fondly when Carver left for the night as he always did even though there was functionally no difference between sneaking out at midnight and sneaking out before the changing of the morning guards.

“Andraste’s tits,” Hawke breathed, laughing lightly as Carver groaned in disgust, slapping his hand across Hawke’s abdomen to smear his own come in a long, hot streak. He supposed he should thank Carver for the consideration. Sometimes he wiped his hand off on the bed, which was quite a bit more of a pain in the ass to clean up.

“Had nothing to do with this,” Carver groused, rolling over and flopping onto the bed, close enough to the center that they’d be forced to embrace if Hawke didn’t decide to get up instead. It was probably not a power play—Carver didn’t think his actions through that deeply, never cared about the hidden layers of meaning that could be buried beneath the surface of things—but Hawke couldn’t help but find himself caught between a rock and a hard place. He wanted it to much: just to lay there next to Carver, uncomplicated by resentments, by the fact that neither of them should have wanted this from the other.

Wanting things caused messes; it led to disappointments. And Hawke knew from experience that the ache wouldn’t go away even if Carver suffered through a cuddle or two.

Hawke didn’t answer, though a handful of quips sat on his tongue. Instead, he rummaged through the devastation on the floor for his shift and pulled it over his head. His mind became a tangle of thoughts, most of them regarding Carver, but he chose to pull on the only thread that he could do anything about: Emerius’s Circle and how to fix it so it wouldn’t remain the incompetent little black sheep of the Chantry.

When he turned back around to check on Carver, too quiet, he sighed and swallowed around that ache again. Sprawled across the bed, Carver slept, eyelashes fanned in dark, tantalizing smudges across his cheeks. The planes of his body, as though carefully carved from marble, took shadows and highlights, both flickering, from the handful of candles on the desk. Hawke almost lit a few more to better inspect him, but thought better of it when he realized all he would do was torture himself if he did, wishing for another round, greedy and a little sad.

He spared a thought for their mother and offered a nebulous apology for what he’d let himself become.

Sighing, he sat at the desk and pretended he had any intention of working and hoped only that he’d figure out an elegant solution to avoid the inevitable awkwardness when Carver figured out he fell asleep and decided he wants to slip out unmolested, go back to the barracks he hated in order to be surrounded by people who didn’t matter to him. He wondered what it would be like if Carver stayed instead, if perhaps they could wake up together.

A dream that would never come to fruition, of course, but one he wanted anyway, when he had no better defenses in place to protect him.

His eyes never drifted from Carver’s face, softer in sleep than at any other time, the only chance he had to do this.

He took them, these scraps, because he had no other option.


End file.
